


Mr. Joker--A Cannibal At Heart

by Batsymomma11



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Blood and Gore, Cannibalism, Gen, Not Happy, Psychological Torture, Torture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-27
Updated: 2018-08-27
Packaged: 2019-07-03 04:41:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,822
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15811587
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Batsymomma11/pseuds/Batsymomma11
Summary: Joker finally catches the man he's always wanted to torment up close and personal; the Batman. And when he does, he let's the Bat in on a little secret that's been 'eating' away at him.





	Mr. Joker--A Cannibal At Heart

**Author's Note:**

> Not canon. I've made the Joker a cannibal because it seemed like the thing to mess with in my free time, LOL. Needless to say, this fic is dark and twisty. Be forewarned, it's graphic. I got some inspiration from the TV series Hannibal. It's an absolute favorite of mine. If you haven't seen, you should. 
> 
> Also, this was originally supposed to be a two-part one shot, but I decided to end it with just one chapter. 
> 
> I do not own DC or its characters. I do own this freaky plot.  
> Thanks and try to enjoy!

            “Batsy dear, wake up…”

            “Batsy—”

            Batman’s head lolled, drool slipping from lips that weren’t fully closed. He couldn’t open his eyes.

            “Harley, how much did you give him?”

            “I swear, Mister J, it wasn’t much. Honest.”

            “Then why isn’t he waking up? How are we supposed to have a good dinner if our guest of honor isn’t even conscious? Look at him,” one pale hand stained with grease paint gripped the Bat’s chin and tugged hard, “He’s drooling.”

            “I’m sorry Mister J. I did exactly like you said.”

            “I’m sure you did.”

            Minutes ticked by.

            Silence.

            Then there were chairs scraping over concrete flooring. Hollow clicking of formal dishware. The scent of garlic and thyme. Bitter vinegar. Then cinnamon.

            Batman felt the groan build in his chest when he forced open sandpaper lids, eyes screaming at the gritty feeling. Light blinded him, scalding his retinas and he sank back under.

            More minutes. Angry words. The hard slap of a stinging hand on cheek and then female sobbing. More angry words and then hysterical laughter.

            Batman roused again to the sound of the manic laughter, his head swimming and his mouth tasting of copper. This time, he pried both eyes open and kept them open when they watered helplessly against the too bright of light, overhead. The room was all stainless steel and antiseptic. Sterile.

            Working to swallow, he struggled to catalog the room. To make his eyes rove the empty white tiles and silver cabinets. There were a set of double doors with circles for windows. Three exam tables, all polished and cleaned.

            Fluorescent lighting scorched the room in white-washed tones and made Batman’s head throb. Even with all the other distracting scents, death clung heavily like a shroud of gossamer folds.

            He was in a morgue.

            “Batsy!”

            The clown squealed the name with joy. Batman flinched away from the harsh noise, tugging his chin up and away when that hand from before was gripping him, smearing the drool on his chin.

            “Oh, don’t be like that. You’ve kept me waiting long enough. Don’t be rude.”

            “Joker,” his voice came out like gravel. It hurt to speak. “What do you want?”

            What had the Joker given him?

            The clown, now inches away smiled strangely, grabbing Batman’s face in both hands, thumbing the ridge of the mask on his cheekbones, “I wanted to have dinner with you.”

            “I’m not hungry.”

            He was very close to vomiting. The room was now spinning in loose wobbling circles. His ears were ringing.

            “Well, that’s too bad. Because I’ve gone to a lot of trouble. See?” Joker stepped back, gestured with a wide showman’s arm, then grinned at an arrangement draped over the table directly in front of Batman.

            A white sheet had been placed on one of the exam tables and there were two place settings with simple white dishes.

            Joker frowned, then turned towards the double doors, “Harley!!”

            A breath later the doors were flying open and Harley came rushing in with a couple of tapered candles and a lighter.  
            “Sorry.”

            “As I was saying, I’ve gone to a lot of trouble to have dinner with you.”

            “Why?”

            A dark green brow rose, insolence and humor marking the white face of the clown sinisterly pleased. “Because.”

            Batman sucked in a breath of air, tasted the spices from earlier amidst the heavy scent of antiseptic and rot and struggled to keep the vomit down. There was a steady trembling that was beginning to settle into his frame and he could feel it twitching the muscles of his face and neck as he became more and more alert.

            A possible side effect of whatever Joker had pumped him with.

            He still felt absurdly sluggish.

            Harley must have left because she returned with a tray of something steaming hot. She placed it on the center of the exam table then left the room again. Joker clapped both hands together, the sound of it dry and papered in the stifling room as he moved over to the Batman with darkness burning in his gaze.

            “Shall we?”

            Batman said nothing. Did nothing.

            He was tied to the chair, bound from neck to ankles in ropes and hand cuffs. Being strapped to a chair was nothing new, but being strapped into a wheelchair, was a bit of a change. Joker wheeled him over to the impromptu dining table then took a seat beside him, a wide smile straining his painted features.

            “I do hope you like what I made. It took me ages to find the perfect one.”

            Batman blinked past the water in his eyes and could just make out the hazy image of something meaty on two plates. Joker sliced into his, the sound of wet cutting filling the room. It sent a trill of unease through Batman’s middle when the Joker remained silent for the first several minutes, truly appearing to be enjoying his meal.

            The clatter of silverware was the only indication Batman was given that Joker had stopped and was waiting for something.

            “Hungry now Batsy?”

            “No.”

            “I make a mean rub. You’ll find it completely removes any of that gamey flavor you might get after a kill.”

            Something like being raked with fingernails down his neck made Batman’s spine stiffen. Joker liked to play with words. He liked to dance and toy. But there was something terribly frightening about the way he chose them now. The way he was grinning lasciviously, teeth glinting yellow, lips smeared bloody red.

            “What have you done?”

            “Done? Oh, nothing out of the ordinary.”

             “Why am I here?”

            “Because I wanted you to have a taste of my world, so to speak.”

            Warning bells, shrill and tinkling went off in Batman’s mind and he shifted uncomfortably, unable to move more than a millimeter bound as tightly as he was. Joker watched him a moment, eyes green and mad, then he shrugged both shoulders as if preparing for a bout in the ring.

            “Harley!!”

            Batman jolted, as Joker jumped to a stand. All frantic energy and buzzing excitement when Harley came traipsing in, with a collar in hand. Batman strained to see the object, then felt his stomach pit as Joker drew near.

            Not a collar. A gag. A ring gag.

            There was nothing delicate or neat about it. Not when Joker leapt at him like a cat does a toy. A brief struggle for control, in which Joker smothered Batman until he grew so weak and lightheaded he had no choice but to suck in a desperate breath and then the gag was being forced in, clicking sharply on his teeth. Joker had it buckled around the back of his neck within seconds.

            The fight should have been longer. The battle for his submission harder.

            It wasn’t.

            It all happened rather quickly, albeit messily. Blood dripped from a now split lip, mixing with more drool at the forced opening of his mouth. Batman was left panting for breath, the picture of subservient slave, with a slight wedge of terror trickling in the back of his throat.

            He’d been in difficult situations before. He’d faced terribly slim odds and had been tortured to within an inch of his life. One of which had been with the Joker. But this time was different.

            Something else was happening here.

            And that difference was what made Batman’s heart slam into his ribs, the sound of his pulse so loud it roared in his ears above the hum of the lights and the cackle of the Joker. Joker was high off his victory and looked flushed with pleasure.

            He got off on this sort of thing. Controlling others. Tempting fate. Destruction and entropy.

            “Oh, you look stunning.”

            Batman refused to dignify that with a response. Forcing himself to calm, he sat rigid.

            “I can hardly wait. Let’s begin.”

            Reaching behind him, Joker grabbed a little dish off the table, no bigger than a ramekin, then sniffed appraisingly at it. “Very fresh.”

            Batman forced himself to breathe. Deep, slow breaths.

            “The curiosity must be killing you.”

            Batman stared sightlessly at the Joker. Joker snorted, then dipped two fingers into the dish to lift out what looked like a thick French fry.

            No.

            Not a fry.

            A finger.

            Gooseflesh bled over Batman’s skin and he felt his stomach roll precariously when Joker gave the severed digit a long lick with his tongue. “Mmmm. Just like I like it. Raw.”

            Green eyes latched onto the white lenses of Batman’s cowl and smiled hazily, already losing himself in his madness.

            “Ever wonder where those parts go that I take? Ever think I might not just be taking trophies?” he hesitated, then shrugged both shoulders, “who am I kidding? Of course, you’ve wondered. Of course, you’ve considered it, haven’t you? When I kill someone, I take what I need.”

            Silence. Thick, heavy, wet. Stifling.

            Batman was so still he belatedly realized he was holding his breath and there were black spots threatening his vision.

            Joker gave the finger another lick, “I knew I wanted to share this with you a long time ago. I knew you would enjoy it, given the chance. But this almost feels too good to be true, doesn’t it? It almost feels—dream-like.”

            Long elegant fingers grabbed the Bat’s chin now, blunt nails digging into the exposed skin. “I cut this off a pretty dame in crime alley. She screamed so pleasantly, it made me hard as a rock. And she tastes even better,” a pause, the green eyes lazy now swept over Batman’s face, “You’re really going to enjoy this.”

            For a suspended moment, Batman did his best to abruptly dissociate. There was no way to escape, therefore he needed to cope with the situation at hand. But the moment the finger hit his tongue and the taste of foreign old blood smeared in his mouth, he gagged. Joker grinned, stuffing the digit deep, pushing until Batman wasn’t just choking on the dead woman’s finger but on Joker’s hand.

            Copper. Too much skin. Paint. The revulsion was so extreme it was dizzying.

            Joker shivered, pleasure rushing along his face when he managed to get the finger down the Bat’s throat, then he smiled slowly. “There. Can you feel it? Can you see it? Taste it?”

            The tremble from before was full blown now and Batman started shivering violently, his throat working to close as his stomach immediately rejected the foreign object. There wasn’t a warning, when Batman immediately began vomiting. The finger came back up, scraping at his raw throat then spilling onto the floor at his feet.

            There was no way to aim it well. No way to not vomit all over himself or to clean up the mess. Not with the gag in his mouth. So he sat violated, restrained and stinking of acid as the Joker laughed until he cried. Then laughed some more.

            Batman could only shake. Shake and dry heave.


End file.
